


Monday

by steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb



Series: Tiny [1]
Category: Marvel Ultimates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:17:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb/pseuds/steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything in his life, before and after, happens on Monday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday

Callum was supposed to turn nine on a Monday.

Instead it was a Monday that he died, the same day that Clint's entire family was slaughtered as he watched. Callum was eight years, 11 months, and 25 days old, and the following Monday he was supposed to turn nine. He talked about his birthday for weeks beforehand, about what he wanted to do for his birthday, about the note he wrote all by himself for Uncle Nick. The same note that asked Uncle Nick to make sure Daddy did not have to go on any missions and miss his birthday.

And today, Monday, Clint sits on top of a roof trying to decide whether or not he should just let himself fall off. Clint would do so if it meant avoiding Mondays altogether; too many things were supposed to happen on a Monday. Lewis started kindergarten on a Monday, Nicole was born on a Monday, Laura called Clint on a Monday to tell him that he was a dad for the first time. 

And today, Monday, is Callum's birthday. Today, Monday, Callum was supposed to turn nine years old.

It was cruel of Fate to make so many things happen in such a short period of time. Every time Clint looked at the tiny headstone he was reminded of the fact that Callum's birthday and deathday are only a week apart. The same day was etched into all four headstones and on the back of Clint's, the only headstone without a death date on the front. On the back were the names of his children with their birthdays, and only a year ago the days of their death were carved into the marble. They filled in Laura's the same day. A Monday.

There are only 52 Mondays in a year, and it felt as though with each Monday Clint could attach some significant piece of his life. Tuesday through Sunday he was relatively fine, as fine as someone constantly swinging between homicidal and suicidal tendencies could be. But Monday was always the worst, always the day Clint sat on top of a roof and dared himself to jump. He wanted out of this incessant cycle, he wanted all of it to just end and be done with.

But today, Monday, he would suffer through it. Today, Monday, Callum was supposed to turn nine years old.

Before their deaths, Clint never really paid attention to the days of the week. But now they were all he thought about. Just get through Monday and make it to Tuesday. Then get through Tuesday to see Wednesday. And so on until he ran into the brick wall that was Monday and slammed into it at full force. 

Tomorrow, Tuesday, he would return to work, go back to SHIELD and do his job just like every other week. But that was in another two hours.

For the next two hours Clint would sit on the roof top, thinking about his wife and children. He would think about the night Callum was born, about the night he kept his eyes on his baby boy for hours into the morning just willing the tiny baby to breathe. And he would think about the first time he held tiny Callum to his chest and rocked for hours. About the first time Lewis looked at him from his spot on the floor when he was six months old and smiled his big toothless grin because Daddy was home again. And about how Nicole took her first faltering steps while holding on to Clint's fingers while Laura sat on the floor with her arms outstretched.

He would think about these because they all happened on a Monday.


End file.
